


The Soldier, the Sniper, and the Renegade Alchemist (as told in a series of letters from a man to his best friend)

by That Hoopy Frood (That_Hoopy_Frood)



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Angst, Depictions of war and bloodshed, Epistolary, F/M, Gen, Ishbal | Ishval, Ishval Civil War, War Letters, very much background Royai
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-04 19:06:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13371207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/That_Hoopy_Frood/pseuds/That%20Hoopy%20Frood
Summary: Found amongst the personal effects of H.R.B. Born: 30 January 1885, Regiment: 8th Eastern; Brigadier General Grumman Light Infantry, Regiment number: O-2801097, Rank: Second LieutenantOfficer Cadet Jean Havoc didn't catch the bulk of the fighting during the Uprising. Commissioned after the official surrender, Havoc spent the long, hot days recovering Amestrian effects and Amestrian bodies, picking through the desert devastation in search of the dead and dying.But when twelve Amestrian generals are slaughtered by a state alchemist, and Havoc is conscripted to a crack team tasked with catching the murderer, Jean will discover that not all wars are fought between nations.Some are fought between comrades.





	The Soldier, the Sniper, and the Renegade Alchemist (as told in a series of letters from a man to his best friend)

_Found amongst the personal effects of H.R.B. Born: 30 January 1885; Regiment: 8th Eastern; Brigadier General Grumman Light Infantry, Regiment number: O-2801097, Rank: Second Lieutenant_

* * *

* * *

_12 September 1908_

Dear B,

Many thanks for the photographs. As it turns out, the lot of us had our photo taken here in a similar position -- in our blues, without those godawful white combat coats, you know? The two pictures together should make for a nice little keepsake. You tell me you’re not into that sorta thing, but I know you still have the pictures from formal. When you eventually take up scrap-booking, give me a ring ‘cause I got a sizeable bet going with some of the other guys.

You’d think it’d be quiet here since the surrender, but it’s not. They’re keeping us busy. Despite the ceasefire, we’ve had little spare time since they’re trying to put us through some training, make up for missing academy time. Can’t have the inductions going to waste, I guess, and Colonel Grand is one mean-looking sod, so we’re not about to argue with him. You’ve probably seen him before, back East: gotta be brushing seven feet tall, big old scar across his nose, got a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp. And he’s an alchemist, to boot... so not only would he hand you your arse, he’d make it hurt the entire time he was doin’ it. ‘Sides, bob work or not, you don’t give lip to a guy who can summon cannons out of thin air.

And I suppose it’s not anything we didn’t sign up for. You know how it is... they’re putting us through the wringer with company drill mixed with route marches, physical drill, semaphore, knot tying, long jumping etc. I heard some guys were able to go to town on Saturday, (or whatever’s left of it, anyway)… but I with a few others greenies have been under orders for desert reconnaissance, so arsing about seems out of the question right now.

You oughtta see my face. I can’t shave because of supply shortages, and since I haven’t had a trim since before I shipped out here, I look a pretty picture. Though you’d probably say it’s an improvement, you bastard.

Our present billet is a sorta monastery thing in a large village, further east than I’ve ever been before, and nearer the border of the Great Desert. It’s an awfully desolate spot. Some of the guys who’ve been here a while tell me it used to constantly come under fire. A soldier named Hughes tells me that just before I shipped out, he was trying to catch a nap in the sand, when a shell burst in a dune, not fifty yards away. Fortunately no one was hit. Maybe it’s damn selfish of me, but I’m sure glad they only sent us grunts out here for clean-up ops.

Anyway, hope all’s well back at the academy. I haven’t forgotten about that drink you owe me! And I’d murder some cigarettes, if you’re feeling generous.

Best,

J

* * *

_17 September 1908_

Dear B,

The towns around here are practically demolished, just some of the walls and towers left standing. Hughes and the others claim it’s mostly the work of just one alchemist, but I think they’re all blowing smoke. I mean, this isn’t just a couple gutted tenements. I’m talking the entire damn city... huge tracts of infrastructure reduced to pebbles and sand. I’m having a hard time believing ‘em. If one man can cause so much destruction, then we soldiers seem a little surplus to requirement, don’t we? May as well just let the maniac have at it.

Today, during a survey, we stumbled across some sort of churchyard, like a burial ground, and it, like everything else, was in a bad state. Great holes had been blown into the dirt (mortar shell or alchemical reaction, who can even tell nowadays) and all the bones and rags and shit were exposed. The holes tend to pool with this oily black water, like petrol wells, and they seemed sufficiently deep enough to drown a man. Huge stone vaults had been blasted wide open, and inside you could see all the coffins and bodies. Sure smelled great in this heat, I can tell you that.

I probably sound like the real life and soul of the party, but in a way I actually prefer navigating the blasted buildings to the ones left more-or-less intact. It’s too weird, catching glimpses of what life was like before the uprising. I mean, of course our billet is only inhabited by soldiers now. But during our marches, we’ve sorted through some of the big old houses, and there’s still plenty of good carved furniture, pictures, fittings etc. It’s strange, like looking in a display at a museum. Even some of the gardens have roses growing in ‘em. Reminds me of my Ma’s plots back home.

Since we’re technically in the reserve, after training, fatigue work has to be done every night, menial stuff like carrying food, ammunition, material for the alchemists etc., so as you can probably guess, it’s nothing but continual busy work. I’m not exactly sure what they’re up to, the dogs of the military, now that the fighting’s done. Been meaning to ask, but who’d wanna talk to a nobody like me? ‘Round here, it’s keep your head down, shut up, and do as you’re told.

Rumour mill says Bradley will be paying us a visit soon. The papers’ll give you pretty full accounts, although they seem to be anticipating our withdrawing from Ishval. Now I gotta close, but I hope to hear from you soon. Don’t forget about those cigarettes, you cheap sod.

Best,

J

* * *

_21 September 1908_

Dear B,

I met one of the alchemists today.

We were tasked with retrieving some of our fallen from the ruins, and she was assigned to my unit because she’s “good with dead bodies” or something. Hell if I knew what they meant, and hell if I was gonna ask. Sometimes those sorta questions get you answers you ain’t ready for.

For instance, few days ago, one of the younger guys... couldn’t have been older than sixteen, started getting nosy about Major Kimblee (turns out he’s that alchemist I told you about, the one who left a whacking great crater where Kanda used to be) and the kid came back looking like he’d seen a ghost.

By all accounts, this Kimblee guy doesn’t exactly play well with others, so he’s not usually placed in command of small units. Strikes me the man’s a bit hairy in the heel, and there are more than a few rumours circling about that he’s just as likely to blow up Amestrians as Ishvalans. He gives me the creeps... how anyone manages to stay so _clean_ out here is beyond me. What’s worse, the man figures himself a charm. He’s got the right twinkle in his eyes... except he’s got all the allure of sunlight glinting off a bayonet. He talks too much. He smiles too much. I know he’s dangerous, but between you, me, and the postmaster, I also think he’s completely off his box.

I figure our alchemist is just as dodgy as the rest of ‘em, but at least she’s not a died-in-the-wool lunatic. Granted, she’s a bit odd... much older than most of the guys here, even the higher-ups. Rake-thin, tall as I am, and her eyes are two different colours. She even wears a pair of pince-nez! In Ishval! It’s as though someone took a librarian, trussed her up in a uniform, and pushed her out of the train onto the front lines. But she keeps herself to herself, and during our recce, she didn’t even pause to perform any alchemy.

The guys called her Kaolin. Dunno her actual name.

With Kaolin and that nice fellow, Hughes, taking point, we surveyed the remnants of Kanda. Though I’m from out East, Ishval was always just a little too far afield for my Ma’s tastes. I’ve been filling in and colouring my map the further eastward we push. Aside from Dairut, Kanda is one of the most advanced lines of the lot. Standing on the ridge over the ruins, you can see all the country we’ve taken and now hold, but it’s not exactly a lot to get wildly excited about. Although it’s hot and sunny, almost pleasant, the whole desert feels sick, somehow. I think the flies have something to do with it.... I mean, as well as the unburied bodies all laying about. There are millions and millions of flies here and they’re all over everything. Captain Hughes put a cup of tea down without a cover and it was immediately covered in ‘em. They’re all round your mouth... you open it to speak or eat and in they pop.

We continue to gather our dead. Each position is strengthened as much as possible before another attempt is made to push on. The whole thing is just steady progress. Something might happen suddenly. To be perfectly frank, I only hope it doesn’t. Surprises don’t bode well out here.

We get plenty of bully beef and army biscuits, but bread and fresh meat is still a luxury and of course it’s impossible to buy anything. If you’re feeling generous, you great gannet, send me some grub from home.

Best,

J

* * *

_2 October 1908_

Dear B,

Sorry this letter is late... it got so dark I had to stop writing halfway through. An hour before, the sunset had radiated across the clouds, turning it molten orange with bands of pink. After it set, I was left sitting under the starless, moonless sky. There was no twilight, no dusk, nothin’. Only blackness. It felt kinda claustrophobic, like I was in a cave, the low sky just a ceiling of grey rock. Only the wind and the first drops of rain let me know that we were out in the open. Hughes tells me it’s the first rain he’s seen in Ishval. I believe him.

Oh... and guess who I saw the other day?

Ri Hawkeye.

I almost didn’t recognise her. She used to have those sharp eyes, ‘member? Like she’d cut ya to ribbons just for making a pass at her (didn’t stop me from tryin’, but it sure as hell stopped you... that’s why you’re the smart one, I guess).

But like everything else in this godforsaken place, it’s like the sand’s worn her down, smoothed her out. Don’t make her any less dangerous... just a lot more distant. Like I can’t reach her any more. Like she don’t want me to.

I also saw Charlie and Thomas about three weeks ago in a small town near here. Of course the Flame and Ice regiments always move about together, so we don’t meet very often. According to Maes (that’s the Captain), Hawkeye used to be in Flame’s regiment along with Hughes himself, before Hughes got moved to reconnaissance and Hawkeye got swapped out for one of Crimson’s dead eagle-eyes. I sure as hell don’t envy her that. Kimblee stares at her like he's gonna either strip her or set her on fire. Disgusting sod. Don't sit well with Hawkeye's old commander, either. Flame's expression turns downright murderous every time anyone so much as looks at Riza sideways.

I hear she’s been in the firing line several times, and at four different places, besides being stationed in the support towers at Kanda and Daliha. Flame’s was a mobile division which accounted for Ri’s gypsy life. Maybe I’ll see more of her, now that she’s stationed near us under Kimblee. Looking on the bright side, I 'spose.

But... I don’t think I’d even know what to say to her, now.

I dunno if I could live like that, with those dull, dusty eyes of hers, though I ‘spose you gotta. I mean, people do it. Like a piece of cardboard, you know, walking around all tall and flat, without nerve endings, sinews stiff enough to keep any weakness they’re holding safely twined up. Of course it probably keeps the good things from getting in, too. But you barely register emptiness when you only have two dimensions. People do it, keep their pain mostly intact.

‘Cept for the moments when they can’t. Some of the experiences endured by human beings on this earth are virtually unbelievable.

This is gonna sound strange, but I think something’s about to happen... though what it is, I can’t say. I dunno... it’s just a feeling. Maybe it’s the fact the drought broke. Maybe it’s this rain. The air’s changed, somehow. It’s heavy and prickly. I feel like there’s a spider crawling up my neck, whisperin’ that there’s something else in the room, breathing with me, watching me, grinning at me.

I’m beginning to hate this damn spider.

I know writing like this doesn’t really do a whole lotta good because you aren’t here to answer me or discuss anything, but I guess it helps a little because, well... you’re the only one I can say these things to. Maybe sometime I’ll even try to tell you how scared I’ve been. Sometimes, if something really _does_ go tits up, I wonder how I’ll make it. My luck is running way too good right now. I just hope it lasts.

Look, it’s late, I’m rambling. Don’t worry about what I’ve said... it’s just stuff I think about sometimes. ‘Sides, I’m so healthy, I can’t get a day out of fatigue work and I’m too damn handsome to die!

Give my best to everyone back home. Can you see if Ma’s gettin’ my letters? Haven’t heard from her in a while.

Best,

J

* * *

  _4 oct '08_

B,

can’t write long... twelve officers are dead, maybe more, generals mostly... dunno if you’ll get this but

something’s gone wrong, and i don’t want you to find out through the papers

look, just

make sure Ma’s okay, right? tell her i love her

i’ll write again... i promise

yours,

J

* * *

_25 October 1908_

Dear B,

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know it's been a while. I got your letters yesterday. You must have spent a fortune on all that postage... maybe you do care after all, you grumpy bastard!

So Ma tells me she’s sent three boxes of stuff... I received one box last week, but I think the other two were either pilfered or lost in the chaos over the last few days. It’s awful disappointing, ‘cause I do look forward to a bit of chocolate and a few biscuits from the store. The injured guys get cigarettes and baccy served out to us, but it’s too damn hot to smoke much (yeah, and that’s coming from _me_ ). The nurses get me a bath in a biscuit tin when they can, but back during recce I had to go all the time without a wash, so you can tell I’m used to being dirty by this point.

Seriously, though, I hope you haven’t been too worried. I’m getting on all right, now. My wounds are healing up nicely... the broken bone is my only trouble. Turns out the two ends took the wrong turning first time so a couple days ago Knox put them on the right road again. I just hope I’m not left with a short leg, but being as there’s about forty pounds weight on the end of it I ain’t gonna be surprised if it finishes off ahead of the other! The good thing is I’m in very little pain, ‘cept when they move me, and let me tell you, Knox has all the bedside manner of a drill sergeant.

I didn’t get a very long run for my money, did I? But I ‘spose it’s no good grumbling... the best thing to do now is hope clean-up ops will soon be over so I can go home.

I know you’re probably pissin’ yourself after what you’ve heard in the papers. Top brass here tried to keep it all hush-hush, but some details about the incident leaked out and before we knew it, half of Central was clamouring for answers... and quite a few more heads besides.

I'll tell you what happened in my next letter. I'm almost out of paper and there ain't light enough to write by at the moment. But I'll tell ya.

Just know... we're all safe and we caught the bastard. It's just... the papers probably ain't gonna tell you how it all went down out here. But I will. I think you deserve to know.

Yours,

J

* * *

_27 October 1908_

Dear B,

I still don’t know if this will pass the censor, but I'll try and tell you what happened on the 3rd of October.

The alarm bell rang in the early morning, just before sunrise. Me and a few other snipers were bivouacking on the base of the hill overlooking the billet when word came back that I'd been pulled from my platoon and placed under Kaolin's command. I didn't even have time to question the order. All hell was breaking loose. Smoke everywhere. People screamin'. Sounded to me like there was a bunch of land mines goin’ off.

Our squad consisted of me, Captain Hughes, Major Rosin (Kaolin), and another sniper named Tim Wilkes from Dardanelle. We set up on a ridge overlooking what used to be the command tent. Kaolin ordered us to start firing on the clearing, though we couldn’t see it through the smoke. Tim brought out a Stokes Mortar. I put the base plate on a tor Kaolin had alchemised from the sand while Hughes helped lower the bipod. All together this beast weighed over a hundred pounds, but it can fire over twenty five bombs a minute into enemy territory from over eight hundred yards away. Firing it into the clearing would level anyone and anything hiding in it... though I still didn't know what we were actually supposed to be firing on. Hughes seemed to know, but Kaolin ordered us to shut the fuck up and aim.

The mortar could do what our bolt-action rifles couldn't... namely reach into the enemy hiding places with its curved path. Bullets can only go in straight lines and kill one at a time. But then Tim, tryin' to be a hero, goes and does the unthinkable... stupid sonuvabitch wants to know the right angle and the smoke is making it difficult to work out the enemy position. Without waiting for Kaolin's clearance, he shimmies over the top of the ridge and commando crawls toward the clearing. Nothing. So he gets up on his knees and peers into the swirling white, tinged with this strange red light... like I was looking at the world through rose-tinted glasses. Before Major Rosin could bust his arse for insubordination, we heard this awful violent noise, cracking into the air, and then Tim was raspberry jam all over the sand.

It all happened so fast.

He made a wet, heavy sound. Just red, everywhere. The ground started collapsin' under us... Hughes and I lost our footing and slid down the embankment. There was so much screaming. I looked to my left and right as we fell and saw that awful red light, those explosions, blastin' folks apart.

I knew then that we were dealing with an alchemist. After we skidded to a stop Hughes caught me and hugged me to him and screamed at me to load a rifle. My hands were shakin' so bad I dropped the bullets.

I saw Corporal Siesel crawl to a spare machine gun and get his ear blasted off by an alchemical combustion. Then Bickwermer got hit in the chest by some shrapnel and then all you could hear was Major Rosin crying out for a litter and aid man every two seconds, tryna be heard over the explosions. Gunnery Sergeant Greico went out to get one of his boys who was hit in the gut and while Greico was carrying him a bolt of red lightning punctured his leg through the front and fractured his pelvis, split the flesh of his thigh like someone’d set a firecracker under his skin. The boy he was carrying was already dead... top of his head blown clean off. Marty Finnegan was his name. Captain DeWitt was killed but they couldn’t get to him... so was Simmons and Mascha and many others. Kaolin was scribblin' furiously with her piece of chalk, tryna erect barriers between us and the source of the explosions in the clearing. She carried a few of the wounded clear herself.

By this point, Hughes and I were stuck at the bottom of the ridge, right at the edge of the clearing. Bullets were whizzing past our heads. Hughes's specs were shattered and he had bits of glass in his face. You know somethin'... I remembered suddenly that Hughes had a girl waiting for him back home, so all I did was try to keep him safe, pushin’ him behind me, pressing him up against the basin wall.

I took some pot shots into the smoke. Bolts of red light cut through the bullets like someone was shootin’ clay skeets. I know at some point I got hit by the bastard’s alchemy but I didn’t know where since all I could hear was the explosions. All I know is that one second I was standing pretty damn straight and then I felt as if I dived off a diving board and landed flat on my back.

Hughes tore off his coat to staunch the bleeding in my leg. I tried to tell him to get back up the ridge and rendezvous with Kaolin. He didn't listen. Stubborn bastard.

I lay there about five minutes and then it dawned on me that I had better get the hell out of there and in a hurry.

But I didn’t think I'd be alive when the sun rose completely. I thought...

Well, I thought I was gonna die. 'Cause I knew who it was in the clearing, blowing everyone away. I _knew_.

That's all I can write for now. I'll finish with another letter soon.

Yours, always,

J

P.S. -- I can still see Tim's eyes.

* * *

_29 October 1908_

Dear B,

I heard laughing, that day. Amidst it all, under the screams, I heard someone laughing.

I have a hard time thinking about what happened, even now. I feel like I can't tell this to anyone else, 'cause it'd shame them. 'Cause it'd frighten them.

It sure as hell frightened me.

But, sometimes, a soldier writes home and all he can do is share his story in the hopes that somehow, in some way, it helps a guy make sense of things. That it helps _you_ make sense of things. And hey, although these stories may not be perfect, sometimes just sharing is enough to make a difference.

I knew that the alchemist hiding in the clearing was Major Kimblee. I knew it was him slaughtering our boys. I dunno how he managed to become so powerful, and I dunno what finally made him snap. Hell, maybe that psycho'd always had a few crossed wires in his skull, and the entire thing just short-circuited.

Even so... you don't anticipate shit like this. You don't prepare for it. You shouldn't have to... not from the guy who's supposed to protect us.

All I know is, Hughes and I were trapped at the bottom of the ridge with Kimblee, with a guy laying waste to our battalion and laughing about it as if it was the funniest fucking thing in the whole goddamn universe.

Time didn't seem to be workin' proper. In normal time you move from one moment to the next, minute to minute. But as we lay there, I felt like I was moving in circles, sucked backwards into an eddy or bouncing like a rubber ball from now to then and back again. But I remember... we were alone. Then, suddenly, we weren't.

It was Hughes who caught my attention, crying out 'Riza, no!' as our former classmate, our lost friend, clambered down that embankment. My vision was goin' from shock, but I could see that tuft of blonde hair glinting in the morning light. I could see she didn't even have her rifle drawn. Her hood was down. Back at the academy, Hawkeye occasionally surrendered to moments where her strange brown eyes filmed and her lips grew all pale, and her thoughts gave over to sights and sounds she wouldn't ever share but couldn't ever shake.

But approachin' Hughes and me... there was none of that. She looked... steely. Brave. Like she knew exactly what she needed to do.

She wasn't that skinny girl from school any more.

She was the Hawk's Eye.

And she had come for the Major.

Hughes screamed at her to turn back... told her, ordered her, begged her... he'd never been a man to hide his fondness, Captain Hughes, and I could see even half-delirious how scared he was for her. How protective this higher-ranking officer was over one cadet. Seems evensomeone as cold as Ri Hawkeye wasn't able to skirt out from under Maes Hughes's compassion.

Bad soldier. Good man. The best there is.

'Major!' Hawkeye called into the smoke. She took several big strides forward and cupped her hands over her mouth. ‘Major Kimblee!’

I thought she was nuts. There was nothing to stop that mad bastard from blowing her to smithereens just like he’d done to most of Major Rosin’s company. To my friends. We had lost so much to the Crimson Alchemist.

And I was so scared I was gonna lose Riza, too.

But then... there he was. Just strolling along with his hands in his pockets. Cloudy blue hairs. Hair still tied back. Smiling.

The way he walked, it was almost as if he was stooping to keep his head out of the smoke that hung so low over the ground. He was still in his uniform, all very smart, yet his feet didn’t seem there at all. The final few inches of leg faded to the smog from his explosions, almost like he was walkin’ on air. As he approached Riza and Riza approached him he turned with a curious smile, lazy-like. I watched him, transfixed, waiting to see if he would speak. At last he opened his mouth.

‘Are you here to bring me home?’ he asked her, still looking at her like he was gonna devour her. The sight turned my stomach.

She didn’t answer him that, but told him he didn’t have a chance in hell of getting outta Ishval alive.

Kimblee informed her, cool as a cucumber, escape had never been his intent.

Then Riza asked him why... why kill so many of his own people.

And I ain’t ever gonna forget what he said.

‘Because I could.’

I saw Hawkeye tense at that. I felt Captain Hughes shifting behind me, tryna stand and get me to my feet. He tried to say something, tried to speak up, but I didn’t hear him, because at that moment, Major Kimblee lunged for Hawkeye.

She didn’t move fast enough... and she’d purposefully not drawn her weapon. Hughes bellowed at my back. I saw the markings on Kimblee’s hands as he leapt for Riza, that awful red light dancing between his fingers.

Hawkeye screamed, ‘Now, Major!’

I thought she was talkin’ to Kimblee.

She wasn’t.

Hughes barely had time to push my head into the sand before the fire roared over us.

I just watched... I couldn’t do anything but watch... tryna breathe as all the oxygen was sucked out of my chest.

A man stood alone in the middle of it. Dark hair, dark eyes... maybe it was just the smoke, but he looked less like a man and more like a man-shaped hole in the hillside. But his flames arced between Hawkeye and Kimblee, driving them apart, and each time the figure raised his hand the flames jumped and hissed, always reaching feverishly out for him, trying desperately to grab and hold onto his fleeting shadow. He took a step towards Kimblee, and reached out with one gloved hand and let it be immersed in the raging flames.

‘You will not touch her again,’ was all he said, his voice cracking from the fire.

In that moment, I had never known such fear in all my life.

Lookin’ at the power of the Flame Alchemist, Roy Mustang, for the first time.

A power I hope I never have to see again.

Never, ever again.

That's all for now,

J

* * *

_1 November 1908_

Dear B,

This’ll be my last letter. They’re shipping me home.

I reckoned, after my previous post, it wouldn't take you long to figure out what Hawkeye had been up to that day. I dunno whose idea it was to use her as _bait_ , but I can tell you, it sure as hell wasn't Major Mustang's. If the rest of the state alchemists hadn't swooped in right about then, I reckon Flame wouldn't have left enough of Kimblee to fill an ashtray. Not that it've been any skin off our noses.

Why, do you think, didn't Kimblee turn Hawkeye into paste just like Tim? Just like the rest of Grace Rosin's battalion and those twelve generals from Command? He coulda killed her in an instant. I've been puzzlin' over it for a lack of anything better to do.

I mean, damned if I know, but you're the strategic genius, not me. I dunno if I'll ever have an answer... I suspect there's a story to be found there, but it's not one I'm particularly keen in knowing. In any case, it's a moot point now. The mad bomber's locked up. Major Mustang and Captain Hughes shipped home to Central. Hawkeye is out of my life, again. Out of both our lives.

I've been thinking a lot 'bout what she did, confronting Kimblee like that. Seems stupid, in retrospect. Like she didn't really care whether she lived or died. I've been wondering what was goin' through that head of hers. And the longer I think about it... the more I think it wasn't stupidity or suicide acting out at all.

Maybe what makes a person like her brave isn't lacking the good sense to be afraid. Maybe it's looking back at what she lived through and seeing if she faced it well. Maybe that's what it means to survive this war.

You know, before all this, I wasn't sure whether you would like it in Ishval. The desert, the heat n'all. But I think I know now... I wouldn’t like Ishval for you. There’s more than just this constant sense of danger. That’s the least of all my worries, even after what happened. I mean, the death is with you so long, it remains about you so close, that it becomes an impersonal thing. Familiarity breeds contempt, and all that.

But the losses ain't limited to those like Tim... or Finnegan and DeWitt and Simmons and Mascha. It's a loss of somethin' I can't quite describe. At least, not yet. But Riza Hawkeye knows. Maes Hughes knows.

I think the Flame Alchemist knows, too.

It's seeing the light go out of men’s eyes. Boys shaking from exhaustion and crying like babies. Strong men they are (or were) who ain't ever gonna have the chance to live normal lives. I reckon some have been over here so long that they wouldn’t care whether they go back home, or whether they stay. I 'spose you get this way when promise after promise is broken.

All those clever books of yours, all the radio programs and newspapers can't really get at the heart of it. Those sorta things don't give you the pangs of hunger, the tiredness after days and nights of goin' without sleep, or the feeling of sweaty, sticky wool uniforms in this hellish heat.

And they don't give you the loneliness, that feeling of being away from home and the ones you love. It's ironic, in a way, 'cause always, those like Hughes are paintin' glowing pictures of what it'll be like to be home again, but all the time we know.

People may think they understand what this war is like. But it's all facts n'figures to 'em. Now me... I know war in torn bodies scared to a soul’s very depth.

When I was just a clerk working my Ma's shop, war was far away, unreal. I had read the papers, I had listened to the radio, but now I know. And what it’s like, I can't put it into words.

But I know... war demands to be felt.

I'll see you soon, Heymans. And maybe then, I'd have figured out what to say.

Yours, always,

Jean Havoc 

**Author's Note:**

> For more adventures starring Grace Lambert Rosin, the Kaolin Alchemist, check out "The Golem Formator of East City"


End file.
